


Thicker Than Blood

by Princessfbi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Bullying, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enjolras is muggleborn, Established Relationship, Feuilly's parents died in the Battle of Hogwarts, Grantaire is a good boyfriend, Hogwarts Fourth Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New at being boyfriends, Protectiveness, These stupid idiots and their codependency issues, Use of a slur, because let's face it if we looked up codependency their faces would be in the picture, protective friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:05:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2134725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princessfbi/pseuds/Princessfbi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snatching the folded paper she kept hidden in her pocket, she muttered the password and ink swirled around on the page. The hexed paper was filled with Grantaire’s doodles and the lines kept growing.</p><p>
  <em>Enjolras left class. Magnus Flourish called him a mudblood.</em>
</p><p>The makings of what looked like a sparrow’s wing halted suddenly like Grantaire had jerked his hand to a stop. </p><p>Hogwarts AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thicker Than Blood

Enjolras was many things. He was loud and passionate. He was blond, tall, and, according to Grantaire, what others would consider exceedingly beautiful. Not that he thought of himself that way, because he was a lot of things, but vain was not one of them. He was the son of an influential businessman who had money to burn but not enough to be “charitable." He was driven and stubborn. When his letter had come one summer day, his father had scoffed that pitying way Enjolras hated. His father often did that particular cough of a laugh and sigh of disappointment any time he thought someone was playing a prank on Enjolras as if Enjolras didn’t know he was the butt of someone's joke. Enjolras’s father was wrong. He did know, he simply didn’t care because Enjolras, unlike his father, couldn't care less about what the other children his age found so funny about the small pale loud-mouthed boy. _Because some things were more important than sports or girls or popularity!_

And after he all but blackmailed his parents into letting him attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he was also a Gryffindor.

_“Yes, cunning and resourceful. You would do well in Slytherin, but your loyalty will go with you to your death, so perhaps Hufflepuff. Bit of a know-it-all, I see, so Ravenclaw could use a mind like yours. Hmmm… Interesting… Very interesting. You fought your way here, to Hogwarts, but what were you fighting for? What were you looking for, hmm? A home, maybe. Sentimental, but it answers the question I believe.”_

The Gryffindor table had erupted in welcoming cheers as he had made his way over to them on unexpected wobbly legs and with a wide smile. That had been when he had been an eager deer like first year. Now, he was in his fourth year. He was determined and headstrong and he had friends. Lots of friends. He was happy.

He was also apparently a—

“Mudblood.”

It had been said in such a passing tone that, for a moment, no one even registered what Magnus Flourish had said until after a pregnant silence that lasted longer than was strictly necessary. Everyone seemed petrified in their seats.

“What would you know?” Magnus had said. “You’re a mudblood that had no idea about the history until three years ago.”

Enjolras had been called many things, terrible horrible muggle things that shouldn’t be used towards anyone, and had taken them on like a badge of honor. Hell, he had been called worst things, been thrown accusations that were far more insulting than having “dirty blood." But unlike the other names he had heard in his short lifetime, where he would smirk with victory and rip to shreds the credibility of the person who had said such a thing, here all he could do was gape. He had been startled really, not expecting to have the slur thrown at him at the very least. Now, he couldn’t seem to decide what to say.

An embarrassed flush crawled up his neck and bled into his cheeks. He opened and closed his mouth several times but any words that could form on his lips seemed impossible. He slammed his mouth shut to keep in the unintelligent noises that could tumble from his throat and _damnit it all to Hell_ , he could feel the burning sting behind his eyes. He bit his lip, keeping the tears back by sheer will.

Combeferre leaned forward, his pristine blue tie wrinkling as it pressed into the edge of his desk, and narrowed his eyes.

“How dare you,” he said, his voice thin and sharp. Magnus shrugged, unfazed that he had set the classroom on edge.  Everyone was glancing between Enjolras, Combeferre, and Magnus like it was a quiddich match that was about to turn deadly.

“He doesn’t even know half of the wizardry history that simple school children learn.” Magnus waved his hand dismissively and it felt like a slap against Enjolras’s face. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. “His arguments are supported by a couple of textbooks anyone could find in the library and read on their own.”

“Just because the information is common knowledge doesn’t mean that the citation is any weaker,” Combeferre said.

“And just because you’re a prat doesn’t give you the right to call anyone a mudblood,” Courfeyrac added. Magnus flushed scarlet but everyone saw the way Enjolras flinched.

“But he is!”

Bahorel was out of his seat before Magnus could finish, Courfeyrac behind him. Combeferre focused solely on continuing to shred every ounce of self-respect that Magnus had. The professor tried to get everyone to just _calm down_ and Enjolras… Enjolras left the room.

No one noticed his silent retreat except for Eponine, who had spent the class picking at an emerald green thread on her jumper, her attention only being captured when the tired argument had taken a sudden turn. Snatching the folded paper she kept hidden in her pocket, she muttered the password and ink swirled around on the page. It had been a gift from Cosette last Christmas. The hexed paper was filled with Grantaire’s doodles and the lines kept growing.

Quickly pulling out her quill and dipping the tip into some ink, she wrote in thick scratched letters in the middle of the page.

_Enjolras left class. Magnus Flourish called him a mudblood._

The makings of what looked like a sparrow’s wing halted suddenly, like Grantaire had jerked his hand to stop before his messy handwriting rose onto the page.

_Thanks._

And then the beautiful swirls were gone. The paper faded blank and Eponine was left to chew on her nail to keep herself from cheering Bahorel on.

* * *

Grantaire moved swiftly through the castle, his footsteps echoing along the stone walls and into the arches of the ceiling, like the soft pitter patter of rain. Fast, frantic, borderline torrential rain. Jehan would be so proud. But he didn’t have time for poetics. He ducked out of Potions with a curse that was sure to dock Hufflepuff at least twenty points, but he couldn’t really find the effort to care. Instead, he made his way towards the Astrology tower. Enjolras's next class was there, and knowing the blond as well as he did (like the back of his own hand), Grantaire had a pretty good idea that once Enjolras had actually realized what he had done, he wouldn’t know of anywhere else to go except the next place on his daily schedule.

Sure enough, as Grantaire rounded the stone corridor, he spotted the familiar hunched figure on the step. Grantaire slowed his steps to a walk but Enjolras didn’t look up at him. His blond curls hung over those blue eyes Grantaire loved so much and his teeth were worrying at his bottom lip. Sighing, Grantaire dropped down next to him and brushed the curls from Enjolras’s face with a tender caress. Enjolras didn’t even seem to notice him until then, and when Grantaire could see his face he nearly swore again. Enjolras’s eyes were red but his face was missing the tears that should have been rolling down his cheeks.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice thick. Grantaire smiled and brushed back the curls one last time before he cupped Enjolras’s cheek.

“I heard what happened,” he said. Enjolras shook his head and pulled away from Grantaire, twisting to the side.

“It’s nothing,” he said softly, nearly a whisper but not quite. “It was stupid.”

Grantaire’s mouth puckered to the side of his mouth. He twisted his hands in his lap, unsure of what to do with them. Enjolras didn’t want to be coddled but sometimes you needed it.

“Let me try and fix it,” Grantaire said. Enjolras cast a curious glance over his shoulder, his curls falling over his eyes again like a safeguard. Grantaire shrugged.

Standing, he held out his hand, letting Enjolras decide on whether or not he wanted Grantaire to go away. Enjolras continued to gnaw at his lip like he wasn’t sure Grantaire would retract his offer and point and laugh at him instead. Damn those muggles to hell that did that before Hogwarts, because they made Grantaire’s job a lot harder sometimes.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras insisted. Grantaire rolled his eyes but his affection was genuine.

“Honestly, Enj,” Grantaire scoffed. “This is one of the advantages to having a proper boyfriend.”

A small smile curled Grantaire’s lips and he lifted a brow.

“C’mon.” He held out his hand, an open invitation that made his fingers curl slightly to his warm palm. Enjolras chewed on his lip some more until the skin was red and swollen between his teeth before he nodded. His hand was cold as it curled around Grantaire’s. Wrapping his fingers around the long thin hand, Grantaire gave Enjolras a quick peck on his knuckle before he ducked their hands into his pocket.

Enjolras was silent as they made their way through the castle, the lines between his eyebrows still drawn together, and it took every ounce of Grantaire’s self control to not smother Enjolras to his chest and babble like an idiot about how everything Magnus had said wasn’t true. But he needed to take things slow or he was only going to send the blond further into his head. He didn’t even so much as get an inquisitive glance from Enjolras as they made their way outside into the cold November air.

The only sort of response he received was when they stopped in front of the monument for the fallen heroes of the Great Wizardry War, built on the edge where the Forbidden Forest met the lake. Enjolras lifted his free hand and rubbed his fingers over the engraving in the marble.

_Fred Weasley_

Grantaire had heard that he had died with a smile on his face. For a moment he wished by some powerful magic that Enjolras would smile again. But he didn’t and it made Grantaire want to punch Magnus in the face.

Grantaire eased both of them onto the ground, his back pressed against the cold marble of the monument. Enjolras remained stiff and rigid as Grantaire pulled him into his lap, his shoulders tense and a faint blush staining his cheeks. Affection was still a very new concept and intimacy was like another language all together. But they were making their way towards being fluent.

Enjolras squinted at the castle and it took a moment for Grantaire to put a name to the emotions flashing over Enjolras’s eyes. Betrayal, confusion, hurt, insecurity, they were all a question to Enjolras. How had his home made him feel like he did everywhere else? Like he didn’t belong.

Grantaire bit his cheek until he could taste blood. What in the hell were you supposed to say to that?

Nothing, he decided, and instead brought his hand up onto Enjolras’s back and rubbed soothing random patterns along his spine. He was stilted beneath Grantaire’s touch but slowly, ever so _painfully_ slowly, the blond relaxed. He curled into himself at first. His teeth were back onto his lip, digging deep into his abused skin and he looked anything but comfortable. Instead, he was fighting, and this was certainly not a time for fighting. Grantaire slid his hand up Enjolras’s spine and curled his hand around the base of Enjolras's neck, fingers kneading the tense muscles, until finally Enjolras tucked his head and pressed himself to Grantaire’s chest. Blond curls tickled Grantaire’s chin and Enjolras’s hot breath slid down his neck and into the hollow of his collarbone.

* * *

 

They didn’t move for what felt like hours and Grantaire’s butt had long since gone numb. Enjolras’s breath was warm against Grantaire’s neck but his skin still felt cold. He didn’t want to break the moment but he was going to have to soon, before Enjolras got pneumonia. But a pair of footsteps crunched to his right and he angled his head to glance at whoever had found their hiding spot.

Cosette smiled softly down at them, her mitten-covered hands holding two steaming mugs. Grantaire could smell the hot chocolate from his spot and he smiled back at her, offering her a silent thanks as he took the drinks from her. Marius appeared beside her, laying a thick Ravenclaw blue blanket over them. Then, Marius and Cosette sat down next to them, leaning into each other.

They said nothing, not even their quiet conversations that only ever made sense to the two Ravenclaws, and Grantaire couldn’t have been more thankful.

Jehan was next, pulling off his knitted yellow cap and handing it to Grantaire. It took some maneuvering. Now that Enjolras had relaxed into Grantaire he seemed reluctant to let go. He slid the warm cap over the thick blond curls. Grantaire pressed a kiss onto his head, inhaling the smell of Enjolras’s shampoo mingled with a hint of the lavender scent of Jehan's clothes.

Joly dropped beside them and tutted under his breath as he tucked Enjolras’s ears under the knitted material. Bossuet fell nearly headfirst into the lake as he followed.

Feuilly showed up several minutes later, when the group had fallen into respective piles with one another, his hands shoved into the front of his muggle hoodie. Grantaire cocked a brow as the boy held out a wrapped sandwich to him.

“You missed lunch,” he said with a shrug before dropping to the other side of Grantaire. He pretended not to notice the way Feuilly’s hand smoothed over the etched names of his parents on the marble, but the boy simply smiled at Enjolras and gazed out at the lake. He may have been imagining it, his skin was definitely hot and sticky from where Enjolras was pressed into his neck, but he thought he had felt a small smile and Grantaire couldn’t help the way his lips lifted upwards as well.

Combeferre arrived in a billow of blue robes, his face a dangerous fury that would have sent any first years running. But when he reached the group, he dropped in front of Feuilly and settled Enjolras’s books onto the ground in a neat pile, saying nothing.

Courfeyrac and Bahorel, however, were a thunderous, unanimous cry of outrage.

“Honestly, that woman!” Courfeyrac said. “She couldn’t control a room if she was the dark lord herself.”

“Oh, pipe down you two.” Eponine shifted from around them and propped herself against Jehan’s shoulder. The poet brought his hands up to her hair and twisted the dark locks out of the emerald green ribbon tied around them.

“I didn’t break you out of lunch detention just for you to get worked up again.”

Joly gasped at the sight of Bahorel’s bruised knuckles but he simply showed them off with a wolfish grin, flexing his hand like he was holding a trophy.

“You didn’t—" Enjolras began, rising from his position in Grantaire’s lap. But Grantaire quickly curled a hand into Enjolras’s robes and pulled him back.

“No,” he said, running his hand through Enjolras’s curls and ducking his head back under his chin. Grantaire felt the scowl and chuckled, tightening his grip around the blond.

“You shouldn’t have hit him,” Enjolras said, his voice muffled by Grantaire’s neck and losing some of the stern edge.

“He needed it.” Bahorel waved his hand and sat in front of Grantaire’s feet, knocking them in a form of greeting. “You stand by a policy of justice and liberty. I stand by a policy that if you talk shit about my friends, you better be scared shitless of me.”

The argument was building in Enjolras’s chest and Grantaire wound his arms around Enjolras’s waist, but Courfeyrac shushed him before he could start.

“Magnus did look like he was all out of shits,” he said wisely. “I saw the shits running for the hills with my own two eyes.”

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence and then everyone started to laugh. Grantaire kept his chuckles to a minimum, trying not to jostle Enjolras too much, and looked around at the circle his friends had made around them. Cosette and Marius were leaning into each other, Marius wrapping one hand around Courfeyrac’s elbow. Courfeyrac pressed his foot into Bossuet’s thigh, and Bossuet was tangling his fingers clumsily with Joly’s. A cluster of limbs had formed a border, Combeferre letting Feuilly’s ankles rest in his lap, Jehan massaging Eponine’s scalp with his fingers, Bahorel holding onto Grantaire’s foot with a bruised hand.

A shattering intake of breath made Enjolras press further into Grantaire’s chest and then he relaxed completely, intertwining their fingers under the blanket.

Grantaire could understand what it was like to want a home, one that was better than where you were born in. It was something he and Enjolras had first discovered was a common ground between them. And he wasn’t exactly an expert on knowing what could pass for the perfect sense of the word. For a while, he didn’t believe a person could find a home. They were just bodies passing through time, dirtying up the environment they were living in until they stopped breathing and the cycle started over again. But Enjolras had fought for a place to call home, a place he could belong and call his own. As Grantaire looked around at his friends, at the ring of people tangling together like the poster children for codependency issues, he began to wonder if maybe Enjolras was right. All Grantaire wanted to give him was the one thing Enjolras had always wanted. Maybe, their friends had done that already, for both of them. It may have taken them over two years to get their shit together but he always knew. He may be a pureblood but his home was in his arms, slowly being put back together by the people who surrounded them.   
 ~~~~


End file.
